


Creative Writing Exercises

by kiryu_k



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, this is for creative writing class
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-07-13 07:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16013426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiryu_k/pseuds/kiryu_k
Summary: Patience. It was what he was always lacking. Again and again Father told him he needed to be patient. Father’s words from their various lessons rang in his mind:“What makes a great warrior and survivor is not their strength, or their cunning. It is their patience. To be able to wait longer than anyone else is willing is to find the right time to strike; to find what others may miss. You are far too impatient, and in this world that can mean death. You must learn how to wait and endure.”





	1. Patience (creative writing sample)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking a creative writing class this semester and thought I should post some stuff here cuz why not. Eventually I might just replace the names in this so it's actually a god of war fic haha.

The boy breathed in; out. He steadied himself, ignoring the snowflakes that landed on his face, eyelashes. They melted from the heat of his exposed skin. He clutched the bow to his chest, felt his heartbeat through his furs. He glanced down at the footprints that made a path in the snow to the clearing of the forest in front of him. They were clearly a buck's, fresh, too. The boy knew he had found a good spot to wait. A river, ice broken for black water to gurgle through, suggested that this was a watering hole for many creatures, including the buck he had been tracking all day. Now he just needed to stay and wait for the buck to return. His legs began to burn from the strain of crouching behind the bushes, but he didn't dare to move just yet. 

The dropping sun turned the snow golden, reflecting too-bright light in the boy’s eyes. Still, the boy waited. The tips of his fingers were numb now. The boy brought his hands to his face, blowing softy. The warmth from his breath helped a bit. Along with the cold, anxiety began to coil inside the boy. If the buck did not show soon he would have to leave. It was getting late and he was expected home before it became too dark to navigate the forest. If he left now it would mean returning home without food to feed Mother, still so ill, and a disappointed look from Father. Those thoughts made the boy grit his teeth, ignore the burning in his legs and the numbness in his fingers and his toes. He let out one single, long breath and watched a small cloud form in front of his face. The buck would come. He just needed to patient. 

_ Patience _ . It was what he was always lacking. Again and again Father told him he needed to be patient. Father’s words from their various lessons rang in his mind:

_ “What makes a great warrior and survivor is not their strength, or their cunning. It is their patience. To be able to wait longer than anyone else is willing is to find the right time to strike; to find what others may miss. You are far too impatient, and in this world that can mean death. You must learn how to wait and endure.”  _

So the boy crouched lower and waited. He had tracked the buck properly. It was making circles and would eventually come back to the river. He was a good tracker, like Mother had taught him. He needed to catch this buck for her. Father was too busy taking care of her to hunt so they were relying on him to bring food home. 

The boy heard the sound of a branch cracking underfoot, interrupting his thoughts. The boy quickly grabbed an arrow, notched it in his bow. He did not come out of hiding yet. If it was the buck he couldn’t scare it away. Anticipation made the boy’s breath quicken.

The boy’s eyes widened as the buck stepped into the clearing, its antlers raised high. It snorted the air, chest heaving. It deemed the clearing safe as it stepped towards the water to drink. Heart beating heavily in his chest, the boy drew his bow. He wished it wasn’t so cold, as his numb fingers struggled to pull the bowstring to his chest. He needed to be careful, now. If he made a noise the buck would bolt and then it would be too late. Evening approached warping the trees’ shadows. If the boy missed this chance it’d be too dark to track any more prey. He took a single step. The snow was crushed softly underneath his foot, making no sound. He took another step. The buck lowered its head and began to drink. One more step and the boy was free of the brush he had been hiding in. His bow was level now, arrow aimed at the buck’s neck. One shot would be lethal. He was ready. The boy took a breath when suddenly a tree left to the buck exploded with crows. They took off, cawing loudly. The buck startled, raised its head, began to turn back towards the forest一

一a single arrow sliced through the air and into the exposed neck of the buck. It wheezed, took a few steps, then fell. Its chest raised up and down rapidly before slowing down, then stopping. It was dead. Its red blood was startling against the white snow, steam steadily rising from its corpse. The boy ran up excitedly, jumping over the frozen river.

Carefully he pulled his arrow out as not to damage it. He took out his leather straps to tress the buck and make it easier for him to drag home. As he hoisted the rope over his shoulders, victory made the blood in his veins sing, and despite the biting cold he felt warm.

For the first time that day the boy smiled. 


	2. Short Story-The Honeysuckles on Her Grave: Character Profiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character Profiles for my short story assignment-  
> Conroy Walsh , Peter Erikson, and May Williams Walsh

**Conroy Walsh-The Old Man**

Physical details:

  * 67 years old
  * Tall, physically fit for his age but has pretty bad posture. If he straightens his back it can be kind of scary because he grows quite taller
  * Face suggests he was handsome when he was younger, but the years of smoking, drinking, and being a fisherman has weathered his features and makes him appear gruff/older than he actually is
    * Not typically handsome, had the look of an adventurer, someone ready for anything (think Harrison Ford)
  * Thinning hair, white beard, unkempt
  * Because of his stature his is physically intimidating: has a scar across his cheek from boating accident
  * Dark blue eyes
  * Outfit consists of ‘typical fisherman outfit’
    * Overalls, woolen sweater (wife made for him, it is old and worn), big yellow raincoat



Interaction with his physical environment:

  * Matches his shanty well, it’s unorganized, unkempt, but it holds a lot of history-every item in his house is there for a reason and has a story behind it
    * The only two parts of his home still well-kept and that look new: his wife’s chair and their garden in the backyard. For him, those are the two things he most associated with her so in order to keep her memory alive he maintains them
  * Slight Irish accent makes him stand out, but it’s not too obvious. Makes him more interesting than anything.
  * While by himself he suits his environment, if he was in the village his presence would stick out as he would be the only one by himself
  * Can easily blend into the background if he wishes to



Activities/daily routines:

  * Gets up as the sun rises
  * First makes sure his wife’s garden is OK, weeds/waters as needed
  * Fishes for the rest of the day, for himself and the village
  * Sells fish to the village’s market
  * Before bed he always does four things:
    * Sits by the fire
    * Smokes his pipe
    * Tells his wife how the sea was that day-literally what the sea’s voice sounds like
    * Reads a book his wife left him
  * Goes to sleep after the sun sets
  * Basically, his life is boring and unremarkable



Other characters:

  * There are only two other characters in this story: the wife, May; and the young man, Basant Anand
  * May was the love of Conroy’s life, they worked hard together and enjoyed their solitude together and worked in perfect harmony. They completed each other.
  * Without May Conroy feels empty, he keeps going because he knows that’s what she would have wanted. They built the cabin together, she died in it, he intends to do the same when his time comes
  * Basant: while unexpected the old man isn’t unwelcoming of him, secretly wishes for the company but is also stand off-ish
  * He doesn’t warm up to him but he does talk to him, Basant’s gentle nature coaxes Conroy to talk about May
  * Their interaction is brief but it changes both of them and their understanding of their own loneliness



Virtues:

  * Tenacious
  * Physically fit
  * Loyal, knows how to keep a promise
  * Surprisingly well-read, May encouraged him to read and write and even though he never went to school past 15 he is well-educated
  * Accepting of all people, no matter what form they come in. He and May were different from most people so he knows he has no right to judge others
  * He is not a cruel man, just not very open with meeting new people, which means he’ll never be outright mean to them. He’s just curt
  * Honest
  * Poetic
  * Good singer



Vices:

  * Lives in his own head and gets wrapped up in his own thoughts
    * All he really has to do now is think and he thinks way too much
  * Which means it’s nearly impossible for him to let go of the past
  * ...like his wife died 10 years ago and in his own way he still hasn’t fully finished grieving over her
  * Basically his entire life revolves around May now oops how’d that happen? That’s what happens when you physically and mentally isolate yourself from the world, Conroy
  * Absolutely refuses to let anyone else into his life, even a pet
    * But desperately wants to
  * Can come off as rude and dismissive, which is what he wants
  * Stubborn



Motivation:

  * Before May passed away it was to live his best life with her
    * Even if it was quite simple: make a liveable wage fishing and come home to his happy wife every day. That’s all he really wanted and he got that!
  * Now it is to honour May’s memory in his own little ways
  * He loves the sea, always interpreted her as singing to him her moods (not in a creepy way he’s just a poetic soul). He loves being surrounded by the sea and hearing her waves



Fears:

  * Letting people back into his life
  * Giving up and living an empty life...he hasn’t realized he’s basically doing that now
  * Forgetting May
  * The garden getting destroyed. Sometimes his memory is bad and he forgets, it sets him into a panic every single time



Other kind of important stuff:

  * He is grey-asexual, May is the only person he truly fell in love with/was attracted to
  * His beautiful singing voice is what made May realize she was in love with him, when he was singing a love song
  * How May and Conroy got together:
    * Lived in mining village, it’s where Conroy’s family moved when he was 10 (immigrated from Ireland) but May always lived there (second generation immigrant to America from England)
    * Knew May when he was still in school, she was quiet but very smart, but they didn’t really talk
    * At 15 he started working in the coal mines like his father
    * After work he’d go to the local pub with his father, May’s father owned the pub/inn so she was a barmaid
    * Conroy’s father always encouraged him to sing to entertain the other patrons, which is what caught May’s attention
    * They get talking through that connection, being the youngest ones at the pub
    * Conroy’s father died at a young age from inhaling the dust in the mines, when Conroy is 22. His mother passed away when he was born and his siblings are much older than him and are long gone (making their own careers), so he is alone
    * May is the only one to comfort him, they become close friends
    * Eventually, they fall in love
    * May didn't want to inherit the pub/inn from her father. She wanted to be further educated but since she’s a woman that wasn't realistic for her. After his father’s death Conroy really didn't want to work in the mines for the rest of his (probably brief) life. His memories of Ireland mostly revolved around him loving the sea, they lived in a seaside village before immigrating.
    * So, they eloped together. May can continue learning and Conroy can work on the sea as a fisherman
    * Moved far, far away to the fishing village with the small inheritance Conroy had and the money May’s father had saved for her (she basically stole it)
    * Build the cabin on the edge of the beach together
    * Conroy was a fairly successful fisher, May bought pretty much an entire library and taught Conroy what she learned that day when he comes home from work
    * Also they built a garden together, May was in love with that garden
    * Didn't really interact with the village, but May did make a few close friends, including the bookkeeper/teacher. The village didn't want much to do with a lady who obviously ran away from her “responsibilities” and an Irish immigrant so they are mostly left alone. After May died Conroy’s only interactions with the village was for trade
    * Lived happily together for ~30 years
    * May passed away from a stroke in her sleep at age 55. Conroy was 57
    * Conroy buried her in the bluffs right outside the village, planted a bunch of her favourite flowers from their garden around her grave and made the marker himself. It's intricately carved wood which he replaces whenever it needs to be redone. Conroy thinks about the fact eventually he won't be around to re-carve it 



* * *

**Peter Erikson-The Kid**   


Physical details:

  * 16 years old
  * Shorter than average
  * Hair just below his ears, curly and a bit wild
  * Wears lots of layers, almost always wears thick woolen scarf, lots of drab colours so he doesn’t stick out
  * Basically looks like Tom Holland don’t @ me



 

Interaction with her physical environment:

  * Stands out as a kid travelling all by himself
  * Avoids people, has no friends 
  * Afraid of his father finding him, or people who know his dad reporting they saw him
  * Constantly apologizing when he perceives he did anything wrong, even if it’s not a big deal
  * Doesn’t want to stick out at all, hates when attention is brought to him



Activities/daily routines:

  * Lives day by day
  * Looking for food and a place to stay
  * He’s homeless, man, has been for a month now
  * Long term goal is to be a doctor or some sort of humanitarian, someone who can make a difference



Other characters:

  * Not a good relationship with his family, which is why he ran away from home
    * An only child, father was emotionally and physically abusive to both him and his mother; telling them they were useless and would amount to nothing and using violence as punishment. Due to this he has little self-worth
  * One of the few people to accept him at face value is Conroy, though their meeting is brief 
    * Both learn and accept their loneliness 



Virtues:

  * Resourceful 
  * Hard-working
  * Optimist 
  * Kind and warm, the type of person who you know would listen to your problems
  * Despite going through a lot he is still willing to help those who need it and wouldn’t hesitate
  * Gentle aura...a sweet boy
  * Intelligent 
  * Determined 



Vices:

  * Naive in his world view, really believes better times are coming even though there are clear signs things are going to keep being bad for him
  * Doesn’t like facing his own emotions, he distracts himself by being kind/ a helper to others
  * Always believed that there is always good in people, however the long-term abuse from his father makes him question this and he goes through a lot of cognitive dissonance 
  * Won’t stand up for himself
  * Doesn’t have clear direction
  * Full of guilt since he thinks he abandoned his mother even when she encouraged him to leave



Motivations:

  * Finding a place where he belongs and is accepted
  * Helping those in need
  * Proving to his father he is worth something
  * Getting away from his family
  * Always wanted to be a doctor



Fears:

  * Accomplishing nothing 
  * Never seeing his mother again
  * Being alone
  * Not being able to help people



Other kind of important stuff:

  * He’s lost his way a bit. He doesn’t know what his clears goals are, he’s basically homeless at this point, making money when he can to pay for food and board
  * Doesn’t realize that he didn’t deserve the abuse and he owes his father nothing
  * His father’s treatment of him left him very isolated and lonely



* * *

**May Williams Walsh-The Wife**

Physical details:

  * Was 55 when she passed away
  * Taller than average but not huge (bit shorter than Conroy, who is a big guy)
  * Thick curly hair, cut just below her shoulders which was typically worn in a braid over her shoulder
  * Hair was light brown when she was younger, never fully went grey but had lots of streaks
  * Knitted sweaters, long skirts, and big clunky boots were her wardrobe staples
  * Light grey eyes
  * Handsome features (strong jawline) but delicate nose
  * Freckles!!



Interaction with her physical environment:

  * A bit of a wallflower so she didn’t stand out much when she didn’t want to
  * Otherwise came off as friendly and approachable, as long as you didn’t scare her off by being too intense/forward
  * Looked/acted most at home when she was in her garden



Activities/daily routines:

  * Would get up at the same time as Conroy: sunrise
  * Not the best cook so Conroy would handle breakfast so she could make a stew for dinner (stews don’t require skill!)
  * Once he left on his boat she’d work on the garden as needed
  * Afterwards she’d head to the village to buy anything they needed and buy herself a book/talk to the bookkeeper
  * Back to the cabin, she’d read/learn her materials for the day
  * If she didn’t feel like reading that day she’d sketch the scenes around their home, her favourite subjects were the garden and the seagulls on the beach
    * Or she’d knit; not very good at it but she tried
  * Once Conroy got back she’d teach him what she’d learned that day and they discuss the content over dinner
  * Even after Conroy went to bed she’d stay up to read/write/sketch



Other characters:

  * Shy and quiet, always looked like she was in thought
  * However, if she was with people she knew or nice company (not too many people) she’d really blossom as a conversationalist and a philosopher
  * Stuck to Conroy like glue, complimented his flaws and he complimented hers
    * He was more able/willing to talk to new people, she made fast friends with them
    * He was indecisive, she knew what decisions had to be made
    * He was a long-term thinker where she liked to live in the moment
    * Initiative taker when he could be hesitant
    * Truly were each other’s other half (soul mates...)
  * Was a teacher, as in she loved teaching people new things and sharing what she was currently learning; a source of wisdom
  * Didn’t have too many friends, but if you were her friend you were extremely lucky. She was warm, caring, and kind even if she sometimes had problems with empathy. You just had to be honest with her and then she'd understand
  * Liked nothing more than deep philosophical discussions, which Conroy always provided



Virtues:

  * Smart and thoughtful
  * Philosophical
  * Green thumb
  * Warm/caring/kind
  * Tenacious
  * Hard-working
  * Cautious-she’d never speak before thinking hard, so her and Conroy rarely got into fights



Vices:

  * Stubborn
  * Could get too into her reading and ignore important real-life things
  * Never tried to understand things from her father’s side or considered taking over the inn/pub, just cut and ran
  * Positive/negative depending on who you ask: never really applied her learning, just wanted to learn for knowledge's sake
  * If you didn’t tell her how she was feeling she could not empathize with you at all. You would have to logically explain your emotions to her for her to understand



Motivations:

  * Living the way she wanted to and not what others expected of her, hating being boxed in and told what to do
  * Learning
  * Being happy in the moment, living her life to the fullest



Fears:

  * Becoming too focused on the future and losing sight of the moment
  * Dying before Conroy, living alone
  * Her father never forgiving her (in fact, she never really tried to contact her father after eloping. It was one of her biggest regrets)



Other kind of important stuff:

  * On the autism spectrum
    * Special interest was botany/gardening
    * Not good at social skills till you approached her, tended to talk too much which was either a turn-off or something people really enjoyed
    * Especially had troubles with reading others’ emotions
    * Not good at hiding her emotions
    * Loud/crowded rooms were overstimulating for her which is why she hated the pub, once she reached her limit she would completely close off mentally and socially. Got into a lot of fights were her father because of her reactions
    * Stimmed by tapping her fingers/bouncing leg, learned quickly that people didn’t like that
    * Quiet as a child since she was always judged as “a little bit off”, so she lead a lonely childhood
  * Fell in love/realized she was in love with Conroy when he was singing a love song:
    * A few weeks after his father died, they mostly just spent time together to help him through it
    * Which involved a lot of late-night walks after her shift as barmaid was done
    * One night they were walking in the fields just outside the village in silence
    * Conroy began to sing one of his father’s favourite love songs, the one he apparently had sung to Conroy’s mother
    * His singing voice was so gentle and kind, just like him, that May realized this was the man she loved and wanted to spend the rest of her life with
    * Also the first time they kissed, she interrupted his singing to kiss him
  * Took them a couple months to figure out they would elope, after they both realized what they wanted in life and what they were expected to do were completely different
    * May actually suggested it
    * Took her inheritance money from the bank without telling her father, which was enough to run away
    * Got married once they arrived at the fishing village, alone with no fanfare. That wasn’t their style
  * Her favourite flowers were honeysuckles
  * Her chair is where she’d always be sitting when Conroy got home from fishing, which became a physical imprint in Conroy's memories



 

 


	3. The Honeysuckles on Her Grave (short story)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A character study of an old grieving man and a lost kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was wildly different than what was originally planned if you look at the character profiles lol

Black water crashes on black rocks, white sea foam splashing high above the waves before landing back into the water only to start the cycle again. Rain cuts diagonally through the sky. It pounds into the earth and floods it, drowning the few plants that grow in the grey sand turned mud. It is a day for isolation; to stay inside and hope the wind doesn’t rip off your roof tiles and soak your few belongings. The town’s streets are empty, only one pair of footprints sunk into the mud, leading out of its streets to the bluffs that lay before the sea. Lightning flashes in the sky, revealing a hunched man standing at the bluff’s peak. Thunder sounds moments after, a drum announcing his presence to the sea that lay below him, as if he is poised to jump. After a pause the man turns and slowly limps his way down the bluff, not to the town, but to the small fisherman’s cabin that lay just at the beach’s edge.

 

Before entering the cabin the old man goes to the back of the house, shielded by the bluff’s side. A tarp covers a raised wooden block, restrained despite the wind. He looks it over to make sure it is secure. Satisfied with his assessment he makes his way to the front door.

With a heavy shoulder he slams against the door and it scrapes open reluctantly. The fire he had left was now burning low. He throws wood into the fireplace with a grunt and pokes at it till it begins to warm the single room again. He peels his soaked yellow raincoat off to hang and dry. He then sits in his low chair, creaking from his weight to reveal its age. He feels the fire’s heat warm him. He lites his pipe, enjoying the thick tobacco smoke even as it stings his eyes.

“The sea sounds different today, May,” the old man says to the empty chair beside him. He gets no answer, of course. He hasn’t gotten one in nearly ten years. He returns to smoking his pipe, trying to ignore the ache in his joints when the weather gets this bad. His hand not holding the pipe rubs on the chair’s wooden arm, worn smooth by the years from this habit. Tapping the excess ash from his pipe the old man picks up a dog-eared book resting on the table beside him.  _ The Symposium  _ is one of the shortest volumes from May’s collection, and it has taken him only a few days to read most of it. In the margins are his jot notes on his thoughts about Socrates’ and his friends definitions of love, beside May’s small, careful writing in faded ink. It’s not the same as their discussions were but this way he feels as though they’re continuing their conversation. Before the old man can finish his page there is a frantic knocking at the door, loud enough to be heard over the rain. The old man sighs deeply, wishing his ears weren’t as good as they still were. The pounding pauses, then resumes again, with muffled shouts on the other side of the door. The old man rises from his chair, walking over to the door. It’s an effort to open it up, wind resisting against his pushing. It swings open to the sight of torrential rain and a young man-no, on second glance, a kid- with his fist raised, ready to pound on the door again. 

At the sight of the old man the kid jumps back, surprised. He’s not sure who he was expecting to answer the door. This scowling man, dark stormy eyes and severe face glaring down at him, is definitely not it. The old man is tall, too tall for a man of his age, weathered face suggesting a much harder and longer life than the wide-eyed kid who stands before him. His bristled white beard makes his scowl look much more severe. The two regard each other, both steadily getting soaked from the rain.

“What’re you doing out in a storm like this, huh?” the old man barks over the noise. The kid blinks once, twice, before answering. 

“I was trying to get to town to get out of the storm,” he shouts, “but the bridge is flooded! I had nowhere to go, then I saw your house! Sir,” he adds. The old man sighs again, then gestures for the kid to enter.

“Hurry up and come in before the rain gets in,” the old man says. The kid bustles inside, pulling on the door till the wind relents. The door slams shut, and then the only noise is water dripping from the kid’s soaked coat and the patter of rain on the rooftop. 

“Thank you very much, sir,” the kid stammers. He’s freezing now, the warm fire making him realize just how cold he really is. With a plop he drops his large backpack, almost as tall as him, by the door. He is too tired to bother unpacking. The old man grunts at the puddle it forms. 

“Hang your coat up there so it drys,” he says, indicating to the hook beside where his own coat hangs. The kid nods and does so, thankful his coat was thick enough that his clothes managed to not get completely drenched. He moves to sit in front of the fire, when suddenly the old man shouts:

“Don’t sit there! That chair isn’t for you, got it?” The kid jumps from the noise, and begins to apologize profusely, head bowed. His voice shakes as he speaks, making the old man pause at the kid’s reaction. 

“If you need to sit, sit in the other chair,” the old man continues, lowering his voice. The kid nods and does just that. His shaking subsides but he furiously stares at his lap, fists clenched. His mouth is pressed in a thin line. The old man rubs his beard, guilt from scaring the kid prickling his sense of shame. 

“Sorry to freak you out, kid,” he mumbles, pulling a chair at the kitchen table over to sit closer to the fire. 

“It’s. It’s not your fault, sir. It’s your house, I-I should have asked first,” the kid answers with a shake of his head. He winces at his still stuttering voice. Slowly, he looks around, taking in the cabin around him. It’s small, the room they are sitting in apparently the majority of the space. In the corner sits a double bed, only one side crumpled from use. It is an old, old house. The paint on the chair the boy sits in is flaking, yet the chair, forbidden to be used beside him looks untouched, almost new. It gives off an air of elegance, and its presence among the wizened state of the rest of the room is almost comedic. In the far side of the room is a dusty bookshelf, which takes up almost the entire wall. From where the boy is he can make out some of the titles, and is surprised to find what looks like mostly academic texts. He smells the distinctive fresh smell of flowers, and realizes it’s from a vase that sits on the table between the two chairs. He doesn’t recognize the small yellow and white flowers. It looks as if the old man tried to arrange them, small flowers nestled between taller ones, a clumsy attempt at artistry. 

“So, kid,” the old man says, snapping him out of his thoughts, “why are you wandering outside in this sort of weather? You didn’t really answer me before.” 

“The bridge to the town. It’s flooded. I didn’t want to be stuck in the storm.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. You’re too young to be out on your own, so why are you?” The boy stiffens, looks down again. He shrugs his shoulders. 

“You do something bad?” He narrows his eyes accusingly.

“What? No! I-I’m not a criminal or anything, I promise!” The kid squeaks with panic. He stares at him with alarm, fear paling his face. The old man scoffs. The kid’s a bad liar.

“It doesn’t matter to me. You can stay here for the night. Don’t be so jumpy,” the old man demands. The boy takes a deep breath, calming himself. 

“Thank you,” he says, quiet voice even quieter. They sit without speaking, listening to the sound of the storm as it continues to rage on. Thunder and lighting interrupt occasionally. Out of the corner of his eye the old man watches the kid. He perches like a nervous bird at the edge of his seat, curious to his surroundings, eyes flicking to every corner of the room. The old man hates this silence, so much more deafening than usual now that there is someone else to occupy his normally empty space. 

“What’s your name?” the old man eventually says.

“It’s Peter,” he answers. 

“Just ‘Peter’?” He nods. The old man makes a low noise in his throat, halfway to a laugh. “I’m Conroy. Conroy Walsh.”

“Thank you for letting me stay in your home, Mr. Walsh,” Peter says quickly. Conroy laughs for real.

“Can’t remember the last time I was called  _ that _ , Peter,” he says with a smile. Peter smiles shyly back. His large dark eyes watch Conroy hesitantly, as if he wants to speak some more. Instead, he runs his hands through his hair, encouraging it to dry. 

Suddenly, a tearing noise from outside rips through the cabin, followed by a loud smacking. Conroy jumps from his seat with an oath and rushes out the door without bothering to pull his coat on. He runs as fast as he is able to the back of the house, to find two opposite corners of the tarp he had thought was secure loose and waving erratically in the wind. The garden which had been sheltered underneath it was now exposed to the ferocious storm. 

Conroy grabs a corner of the torn tarp, ignoring the metal ring on its end as it smacks his face. The wind makes a parachute of the tarp, and every attempt to pull down one corner makes the other fly up when it’s not held down. Without their cover the flowers petals begin to tear and the garden’s dark soil begins to flood. It feels as though Conroy’s throat is squeezing closed in despair as he watches the destruction he cannot stop. His arms shake from the effort of just holding one corner down, and he curses his old age making him not strong enough to grab the other corner. Just as his fingers begin to slip on the slick tarp Peter appears around the corner, confusion and concern plain on his face. Catching on quickly he runs over to grab the tarp’s other corner and ties it down. With the last of his strength Conroy ties his own corner down, securing it. Peter shouts at Conroy to get back inside the cabin. He agrees without argument. Stumbling through the mud Conroy heaves with exhausted breath, making his way back. As soon as they’re inside Peter turns to him in disbelief.

“What are you doing, Mr. Walsh? You could’ve been hurt, just over some flowers!” He shouts.

“They’re not just  _ some flowers _ , you stupid kid,” Conroy snaps back, ignoring that he makes Peter flinch, “they’re  _ May’s _ flowers, and they’re all I-” Conroy is interrupted by a fit coughing, his own words clogging his throat. He wheezes, catches his breath. 

“Are you okay?” Peter says, voice quiet again. Conroy takes a moment to answer, rubbing his face wearily.

“Yes. I’m just worn out. I’m sorry for shouting at you,” he adds, remorseful. Peter nods, accepting his apology. Without a word they move to sit back in their seats before the fire.

“Who’s May?” Peter asks, the innocence in his voice making Conroy unable to get mad at him for the question.

“May is. Was. My wife,” Conroy rasps, “she’s gone now. She passed away nearly ten years ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s her garden, not mine,” Conroy continues, ignoring Peter’s condolences, “May loved that garden, she worked on it for hours on end. When I got home from the fishing boats she’d be sitting in her chair, reading one of her books, fingernails filthy from gardening all day. There was a fresh vase of flowers waiting for me everyday, too. She’d make sure to replace them before they wilted, always arranged them all pretty. Her favourite flowers were the honeysuckles. Even if they were the hardest to grow here. They became my favourite, too. I never got to tell her that.” 

Conroy smiles softly, transported to the time before he had lost May and whatever else with her. 

 

The two of them sit in silence for a long time. The rain continues to pour down, the sky crying in their place.

“Mr. Walsh, can I tell you something?” Peter says, voice barely above a whisper. Conroy nods. “I lied, earlier. About the bridge. It, well. It wasn’t actually flooded. I just didn’t want to go into town. I was scared.”

“I figured as much, Peter. You’re not a very good liar, you know,” Conroy replies. “You still haven’t told me why a kid like you is out on their own, though.” 

Peter pauses, wrings his hands before continuing.

“I, uh. I ran away from home. From my dad. I don’t live far from here and I was afraid someone might recognize me in town and tell him. I-I can’t live there anymore, my dad, he-”

“Peter,” Conroy interrupts, “it’s okay. You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to. Just focus on getting some rest.” 

Conroy stands up to offer Peter the bed, but he shakes his head, pulling out a sleeping bag. Even after Conroy insists Peter argues against taking his bed, reassuring him he’ll be fine. Eventually, Peter wins.

As they lay in the dark the kid thanks the old man one more time.

“I’ll leave first thing in the morning, even if there’s a still a storm. I promise,” Peter says, struggling through a yawn. Conroy laughs.

“Peter, I’m not going to throw you out. I’ve been by myself for so long now that I think I’d rather like a few day’s company.” 

“Alright,” he says happily. “I’m glad we were able to save Mrs. Walsh’s flowers, Mr. Walsh,” Peter says after a pause.

“I think May’s glad, too,” Conroy replies.

Peter lays before the dying fire, mind drifting as exhaustion takes him. Faintly he smells the honeysuckles’ delicate scent from their spot beside May’s chair as he falls asleep. 

That night he dreams of the sun’s golden rays on white and yellow flowers dancing in a bright green field. A gentle breeze makes them tremble till their colours blur together to make an entirely new colour, one Peter had never seen before. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr @kiryuyu  
> "Honeysuckle also means fraternal affection or devoted affection. It symbolizes devoted affection in the form of a lover's embrace."  
> https://www.auntyflo.com/flower-dictionary/honeysuckle-flower


	4. The Tall Man's Shadow (short story)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smoke from the tall man’s cigarette drifted upwards to join the rest of the pollution in the city’s sky. He took another drag, ignoring as it burnt low enough to make the ends of his fingers tingle. He readjusted the grip on his dented bat, slick metal slippery in his sweaty palm. Flicking the used cigarette onto the ground, he watched it tumble to barely miss the pool of gore at his feet. One cigarette was never enough to cover up the scent of blood. So he lit another, breathing in the choking fumes deeply. The alleyway’s shadows consumed the scene, dyeing the man’s skin, the spreading blood, the lit tip of his cigarette into a grey monochrome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for my group workshop. I was going to submit my other short story but wanted to do something original for them.  
> Warnings for this chapter: very brief mentions of gore and past sexual violence

Smoke from the tall man’s cigarette drifted upwards to join the rest of the pollution in the city’s sky. He took another drag, ignoring as it burnt low enough to make the ends of his fingers tingle. He readjusted the grip on his dented bat, slick metal slippery in his sweaty palm. Flicking the used cigarette onto the ground, he watched it tumble to barely miss the pool of gore at his feet. One cigarette was never enough to cover up the scent of blood. So he lit another, breathing in the choking fumes deeply. The alleyway’s shadows consumed the scene, dyeing the man’s skin, the spreading blood, the lit tip of his cigarette into a grey monochrome. 

Finally, he turned down the alleyway, knowing the clean-up crew would be annoyed with him if he stuck around the body for too long. It was a simple job, like always. Some chump over his head wasn’t paying off his loans in time so he needed to be made an example of. Didn’t matter if he had a family depending on him, or if he was threatened by the boss to take the loan in the first place. Late payments simply weren’t tolerated. The man hid his bat in its usual place, trusting the clean-up crew to retrieve and fix it up in time for his next job. The man stepped out into the streets, into the crowd lit by blinking neon lights, its thousands of colours bright enough to outshine the stars in the night’s sky. His phone buzzed, once. A message. From one of the boss’ associates:

_ Good work. Expect your payment in full at the usual spot. Will update you on next job soon. _

It was a mystery to him how they always contacted him so quickly after he had finished a job. He knew he wasn’t being tailed, yet they always kept an eye on him. The man repocketed his phone without replying. He was done with work for now. On a night like this the best thing to do was get drunk enough that everything felt numb, ‘till the image of metal bat crushing skull stopped flashing in his mind.

x

The usual bar, the usual drink, the usual lulled silence that only came from a place where people came to forget and enjoy the lonely company of a full glass of booze. Golden honey light bathed the patrons as they sat hunched on their stools. Shoulders drawn up, they blocked themselves from the rest of the world. The radio sung a sleepy song about summer nights in country fields. The man couldn’t imagine himself in such a place, but the guitar’s aching strums made him feel nostalgic for a memory he couldn’t recall.  He finished his third glass, indicated to the bartender, Caroline, for more. With a nod she strolled over, pulling out the bottle of whisky.

“Another long day, huh?” she asked innocently as she poured the man’s drink. He grunted and shrugged.

“You come here almost every night looking ‘bout ready to drop,” Caroline continued, placing the now full glass in front of him, “you work too hard.”

“Job’s a job,” the man rumbled. He sipped his drink, enjoying the track it burned down his throat. 

“There are things more important than work, y’know. Like, your health?”

“Not really your business how I take care of myself, Miss Caroline,” the man replied. He drained the rest of his glass, leveled his steely eyes with hers. Caroline paused from his look, stiffening. The man knew he was intimidating even when he didn’t try to be. Side effect of the job, he supposed. 

“I. I know that. I’m not trying to stick my nose where it don’t belong. But, you’re a regular here, and don’t bring any trouble to this place like those other guys. So, I’d like to think of you as a friend, and I worry about you. Don’t want you overworking yourself, that’s all,” she said. The man chuckled. Caroline was a sweet and naïve woman, to consider herself friends with the hitman for the most notorious loan shark in the city. Not that she knew. Or would ever know. For a moment the man imagined the reaction he’d get if he told her his job consisted of beating innocent men’s heads in till their brains mixed with the filthy grit of the cold pavement. He almost chuckled at the mental image of her round face contorting with shock and fear, mouth agape like a fish drowning in air. 

The man stood, stretching until he was at his full height. Moving had caught the attention of some of the bar’s attendants, his height and stature something hard to ignore. He dismissed their stares, used to the attention. He hadn’t nearly had enough to drink but he was done with this place and this woman. 

“Thanks for the concern, Miss Caroline,” he said as he put on his jacket, “but it’s best if you don’t worry about me.” The tall man left the bar, the guitar’s melancholy tune from the radio now the macabre soundtrack to the scene of himself breaking bones that still repeated in his head.

x

The streets thronged with too many people with too much money, looking for drugs or booze or prostitutes so proudly displayed in the filthy city’s pleasure district. Framed by humming neon they crowed and laughed open-mouthed. Their faces blurred together, becoming an amalgamation of a grinning predator, canines glinting in the neon’s yellows and pinks. Their hyena laughs were a chorus of indulgent corruption, crescendo never reaching its climax. The tall man walked through the crowd, half-empty whisky bottle in hand purchased from the liquor store on the corner. He didn’t bother to move out of the way, as the few people who didn’t notice the presence that demanded walking room were easily shoved to the side. Most were too drunk or high to give him attention, which the man liked. He drank more as he continued on his way home, the liquor finally hitting him. He heard a sharp whistle to his left, and paused to find its source. A woman waved at him as if he was an old friend. She beckoned him over with a curling finger and a wink, the sequins on her strappy dress flashing distractingly as she moved. She had found her prey and was now luring him in.

“You look lonely, mister,” she called. Her alluring voice was just the right pitch to slip through the crowd’s baying, right into the tall man’s ears. He walked over to her so she didn’t need to shout anymore.

“Yes, I am,” he confessed, since he was drunk and thought spending time with this woman was low on the list of stupid things he could do on this night of forgetting. The man towered over her but she didn’t shrink back or even seem to notice. She simply craned her head up so she could meet his gaze. The man appreciated her indifference to his stature.

“If you’re lonely,” she breathed, “then why don’t you spend the night with me? There’s a hotel just around the corner here if you’re interested.” She practically glowed from the lemon-yellow light of the street lamp above her, even as the tall man’s shadow engulfed her. Her heavy eye makeup made her eyelids look metallic, the colour on her lips a striking robin egg’s blue. She was adorned to her face to her breasts with glitter, and they lay on her face in such a way that it looked like she was crying stars. Every time she moved they glimmered a new colour, and the effect was intoxicating to the man. She looked completely detached from the world around her, a glowing alien that couldn’t help but stand out on this ugly planet. The man finished the bottle and placed it delicately on top the precarious pile of trash in the bin beside him. 

“Lead the way, miss,” he answered. She smiled up at him, corners of her eyes creasing.

They walked side by side, the glittering woman striding with confidence in her silver heels, ashy brown ringlets bouncing with every step. She smelt of cigarettes and spicy perfume, not enough to cover up the smell of smoke but just enough to compliment it. She boldly wrapped her arm around the man’s, skinny fingers groping his muscles without discretion. The woman raised an eyebrow and made an impressed noise. Soon they reached a run-down hotel, sign flashing pink.

“Here we are,” she said in her soft voice. She smiled up at the man again, teeth crooked and yellow. 

Entering the hotel the clerk at the front desk lazily raised his head up from the magazine he was reading. He nodded at the woman and gave his greetings, handing her a dog-eared key card. He didn’t even spare a glance at the man she clung to. They made their way up the stairs, the glittering woman leading the way. Her fingers were cold as she held the man’s hand behind her, fake nails scraping his knuckles softly. Her heels clacked pleasantly on the worn wooden boards as they reached the top of the stairs and down the hallway to the last door on the right. With a  _ beep _ from the key card the door opened, light flickering as if it was making up its mind on whether or not it wanted to stay lit. The room was small but clean, double bed in front of a curtained window. The bed was adorned with a tacky blanket and pillows that matched the rather ridiculous bright pink wallpaper. 

“It’s an hourly rate which changes depending on what you want,” she explained curtly, “I don’t allow hitting. Or choking. Everything else is on the table.”

“Oh,” the man answered. He swayed for a moment, then sat on the bed to settle himself. He hadn’t actually had a clue about what he wanted. The thought of just spending time with this glittering woman, mixed with the booze, made him unable to think of anything else. The woman sat beside him with a sigh. She shook her head to get some stray hairs off her face, heavy earrings tinkling like mini chandeliers.

“Listen, man, if you don’t know what you want you still have to pay me for at least the hour. For wasting my time,” she said boldly, “and if you’re embarrassed or if this is your first time or whatever, don’t worry about it. Trust me, no matter what you want I’ve had weirder requests.” She laughed grimly, recalling the strange and awful things she’d had to do in the past. 

“What’s your name?” the man asked. She huffed before answering, accepting the fact that she wouldn’t be doing anything tonight. As long as she got payed she didn’t mind playing therapist.

“Call me Ava.”

“That your real name?” she laughed again instead of answering. “It’s pretty.” Ava turned to look at the strange huge man sitting beside her. He was hunched into himself, jacket and pants and shirt black, a play pretend grim reaper. His hands lay clasped on his lap, crooked fingers interlocking. The overhead light made the angles on his face sharp as razors, greatly exaggerating his features.

“ _ You  _ have a name?” she returned.

“Yes. No. Not one you’d like,” the man said. A puzzling answer but Ava didn’t pry, knowing how much she protected her own name. She lit a filtered cigarette, offering one to the man. He declined.

“Why do you do this, Ava? Don’t people do terrible things to you?” the man asked next. 

“Jesus,” Ava said at the man’s lack of tact. “Yeah, I guess. But it’s rare, usually you just make them feel special for a bit, give them some extra attention and that’s all they want. I mean no one’s done anything really bad in a while. And anyways, at the end of the day, even if I don’t like it, I still get paid.” Ava felt uncomfortable then, the strange man’s question making her think of things she’d rather not.

“If you don’t like what you’re doing then why do you keep doing it?” the man asked, voice low.

“A job’s a job. It’s not like I’m good for much else at this point,” she mumbled. She blew out a plume of smoke, watched it swirl lazily through the air. Far off an ambulance’s siren wailed. The man looked at her in the eyes then, at her exhaustion painted over with melting makeup and her spicy perfume, her glitter and her fancy cigarettes. Under the hotel’s harsh lighting she hardly sparkled but was still radiant compared to him. 

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” the man said softly. His tone was so understanding that Ava paused, stared at him in surprise. His shadow stretched across the floor, as if trying to escape its confinement to the man it was attached to.

As the night continued they sat in knowing silence, the tall man admiring Ava’s quiet strength she spoke of without uttering a word. She smoked one cigarette after another, smeared glitter on her knuckles glinting when it caught the light. Eventually, the hour passed in the hazy room, clock face displaying 3 am. 

“It’s been an hour, unless you’re gonna pay for another I’m going to go,” Ava said. The man handed her what he owed without complaint. 

“Thank you, Ava,” the tall man said quietly as he rose from the bed. 

They left the hotel, the man offering to walk Ava back to where they had met. They parted with a soft goodbye and nothing more. Ava stood under her streetlight, glowing and waiting for whoever would come her way next. She watched as the tall man went his own way down a street without lights, ‘till the yawning shadows swallowed him up and you could swear that no one was there at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr @kiryuyu


	5. Poetry Assignment-Haiku

**Sun Rises**

 

Wake up to morning

sun, feel its soft gentle rays

warm me. Hello, world.

 

**Sun Sets**

 

Melting colours bright

cloud underbelly’s highlights,

in red and yellows

 

**Sun Sleeps**

 

Ethereal moon-

she’s comforting silence, like

a friendship unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im on tumblr @kiryuyu


	6. Poetry Assignment-Ekphrastic/free verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ekphrasis or ecphrasis, comes from the Greek for the description of a work of art produced as a rhetorical exercise, often used in the adjectival form ekphrastic, is a vivid, often dramatic, verbal description of a visual work of art, either real or imagined."

**The Hall of Prisoners**

 

Half-formed secrets, whispered in marble are a path

of creation, up to vast cathedral

Its lights are a halo on milk-white skin

He speaks a story of ant

underfoot, triumphant against the giant 

He tells me another story through the curve of his spine

A story of God

He is an artist

Yet in His frustration beauty sustains

The crowd are worshipers

to artist immortal

His feet, 

     an altar, 

his eyes, 

     windows

Stone hand grips Bible whose message is Man

before God

In that moment I am creation, emotion 

never felt before

     If God is the creator 

    and I am the artist

    am I not God, too?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.accademia.org/explore-museum/halls/hall-prisoners/


	7. Not Like Other Girls (creative nonfiction)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am twelve years old, looking at myself in the mirror after a bath. I notice the roll of fat on my stomach. I pinch at it, hard enough to leave a red mark. The reflection in the mirror tells me, for the first time, that my fat is ugly. That I am ugly.

My mom has given me permission for one new toy, and I know exactly what I need. A police officer Barbie to arrest the bad guy who has been terrorizing the two high-school girls by day, magical girls by night, would be perfect. I had been watching a lot of Sailor Moon lately, and my 8 year-old mind was inspired for the next story I wanted to tell with my Barbies. I march to the toy aisles as my mom trails behind me. We reach the toys and I run ahead, over excited.  The divide between the pink toys and blue ones creates an invisible barrier. No one has told me but I know I’m not allowed in the aisle with the blue toys, so I go to look at the pink dolls. I see hairdresser Barbie, fashion designer Barbie, dog walker Barbie, but no police officer Barbie. How am I supposed to finish my Sailor Moon story without a police officer? There aren’t even any boy Barbies I can pretend is a police officer. My mom is getting impatient, and I know I need to make a decision. I get teacher Barbie instead. The play doesn’t end with someone to arrest the bad guy, so teacher Barbie becomes a new magical girl friend. I’m mad that the bad guy doesn’t get the jail-time he deserves.

\---

I briskly walk the five minute journey to my school, enjoying the feeling of the breeze on my bare legs despite the heat from the almost-summer sun. I reach the school yard, to the crowd of screaming children as their running feet slap on hot tarmac. Teachers wait at the doors for the bell to ring, sunglasses perched on their noses, making it impossible to know what mischief they're watching. I continue along my way to the portable where all the girls in my grade hangout  (since sitting on its steps is the coolest thing you can do when you're in grade six). I join them and we share a quick greeting before they return to their conversation. 

"I haven't shaved in two days, it's so gross!" Emily laughs, drawing out the 'so' till her voice pitches. Becky laughs, too.

"Ew, doesn't it feel weird?" she says. She reaches over to rub Emily's leg, "you're like a hairy spider!  _ I _ have to shave every day."

I blink, confused, and look down at my own legs. I don't remember the last time I shaved. The black hairs stand out on my pale skin. The hair’s suddenly thicker than the last time I bothered looking at my legs. Emily's hair is so blonde that you wouldn't notice her hairy legs even if she hadn’t shaved for a week, I think. 

The bell rings and I'm thankful for it as a scurry away to class. My legs are hidden underneath the desk so I don't need to look at my hairy spider legs anymore. The next day, I wear my only pair of black leggings despite the heat.

\---

It’s clothes shopping time, and as usual I drag my feet on Zeller’s squeaky linoleum as my mom pulls me along. A new school year means new clothes, and even though clothes shopping is the most boring thing in the world my mom forces me to come with her every year. We reach the girl’s clothing section and my mom begins the hunt to dress me up. She finds a pink shirt with sequins and holds it up for my judgment.

 "I hate pink!" I complain to her. I’d rather be caught dead than be seen in something that uncool and  _ pink _ on my first day of grade eight. I grab a red shirt with black plastic on the front from the boy’s section.

"This is the shirt I want instead!"

\---

"When are you getting a boyfriend?" my aunt asks, reaching over to pinch my cheek. I laugh and shrug instead of telling her boys are the last thing on my mind and the idea of getting a boyfriend fills my stomach with snakes, not butterflies. My dad looks over with a raised eyebrow, concerned over the idea of his little girl getting a boyfriend. 

"The boys are going to love your nice hair!" she continues, "I wish you didn't have it back all the time." I tell her it's annoying to brush so it's easier to just keep it in a ponytail. The conversation drops. 

That Christmas she gives me a bottle of Britney Spears perfume that gives me a headache when I sniff it. My mom scoffs at the idea of someone not even in high school wearing perfume, and throws it out without me noticing one night.

\---

I am twelve years old, looking at myself in the mirror after a bath. I notice the roll of fat on my stomach. I pinch at it, hard enough to leave a red mark. The reflection in the mirror tells me, for the first time, that my fat is ugly. That I am ugly.

\---

A bead of blood drips down my leg to swirl into the drain, washed away along with the soap from the shower’s spray. I wince but continue the track up my leg with the razor, trying to ignore the sting. It’s been almost three days since I’ve shaved. I have gym class tomorrow, and I really don’t want my classmates to see me unshaved. Changing in front of the rest of the other girls is already awkward enough. I can’t imagine how they’d react if they saw the thick, wiry hair that never seems to want to leave my body. Finally, I finish. My sister bangs on the bathroom door, telling me to hurry up. 

 

The next day is normal enough for a high school full of anger issues and hormones, and I do my best to be unnoticed by the crowds. I think that cramming a small space full of teens is a dumb idea, especially when we’re so different from one another. Especially me.  _ I  _ am different from those popular girls, or at least that’s what I keep telling myself. I worry about important things like books and school rather than boys. I don’t go to parties, I don’t drink. I’m a ‘good girl’, one my parents can be proud of. 

The rumours my friends tell me about what Jamie did to Ellie, since she was hanging out with Lucas, scares me. Danica sent nudes, apparently, and now every boy in our grade has pictures of her body on their phone. Rob cheated on Danica, again, but they’re still together. Mr. White caught David and Emma making out in the boy’s bathroom.  _ What a slut _ , we call Emma, even though David has been with three girls this semester so far. But in the end, I’m not like those girls, so they’re just rumours. I’m different, I keep telling myself. Those rumours don’t affect me. 

My bare legs rub together as I sit with my friends and gossip, the prickly barely-there hair chafing uncomfortably against  my skin. 

 

\---

I watch my reflection in the foggy mirror after my shower. I take in my body, every curve and freckle, every dark hair on my arm. I look into my eyes, then at my lips. I smile, closed-mouth, since my yellow teeth are embarrassing. My eyes drift down to my stomach, to the layer of fat that has been haunting me since forever. I pat at it, and the fat is soft and warm underneath my hand.

My reflection tells me I should start shaving again, that no boy is going to like my hairy armpits and hair. I tell her that no boy’s opinion is ever going to sway me. 

She tells me I should cover up those dark circles under my eyes with concealer. I put glitter underneath my eyes, instead. Now the dark circles stand out more, but they’re beautiful to me. 

She tells me I need to get rid of that layer of fat, to be skinny again. I laugh,telling her and myself, what good comes from hating a part of me? 


	8. Final Assignment-Free Form Poems

**An Ode to the Colour Pink**

You are

soft, 

bright,

neon,

pastel.

The blush on my cheeks,

the cloud’s cotton-ball puff highlights on melting sunsets.

You are

lips,

rose petals,

cotton-candy sweet.

The colour of spring;

its blooming flowers.

You are

regret-

how I hated you,

in the age of realizing what it means to be ‘me’,

to be feminine and define what being a woman is.

You are

realization-

connotations speak louder than 

the gentle hues that envelop me.

How much can one colour be?

A message?

A statement?

Perhaps just a shade of red?

Its answer to me:

acceptance.

Pink, I adore you and all of what you say to me.

* * *

**To the Girl I Haven’t Met**

When her eyes look at me 

how it burns

that heat-

and sun rays melt the snow inside me.

When she speaks words 

between soft lips parted,

rose-scented promises that dyes it all pink

and turns my tears to honey

golden, slowly they track down my face

and she kisses them all away.

When her arms hold me 

how I feel

that I am the only thing that matters.

She turns these fears to something 

feather

-light,

they float away on the salty sea breeze.

And when she laughs, 

oh how I hear

music,

unfamiliar songs with lyrics I've always known.

She sings of home

and I know I'm there.

* * *

**The Company of Loneliness**

     On the first night 

I cried salty tears

tracking paths down my face,

a familiar dance,

which soaked into my white pillow case

to imprint on my skin

as freckles.

     After that 

I sat in quiet contemplation

in the isolation-chamber of my own choosing

and watched the sun track time

in an arc across the sky.

And thought:

“I am not strong enough for this”.

     Later 

I found my thoughts

echoed so loud 'til I was deaf;

I believe when I lay cold for autopsy

they'll find the definition of loneliness 

in the grooves of my grey matter.

     When time marched on 

to Winter

the white landscape

was a comforting mirror

outside my window, 

and I found myself smiling

as my cheeks turned red from cold.

     One day,

without announcement,

I realized my own company

was all I needed.

A fragile strength built up

within my own being, 

and I thought to myself:

"maybe I will be alright".

And I was.

* * *

**White Lily Lullaby**

If tomorrow never came

and I had slept my days away,

I would hold my sister's hand

and say

"I love you”.

If it all ended now,

before I reached where I think I should be

I'd be thankful for the journey

and the hope it gave me.

If I never woke next sun rise 

I'd be happy to know 

at least the sun still shines

and the moon still hangs

in the eternal sky

to light the life

that will go on without me.


End file.
